I take a deep breath to prepare myself for the next question that I know is coming.
“So, Rachel?” Melanie pauses, smiling at me with her wide, toothy grin.
There’s a smudge of red lipstick on Melanie’s front tooth, and it’s technically girl code to tell her about it, but what is the procedure when you’re on a stage in front of twelve hundred people? I avoid it. Melanie can be embarrassed about it later.
“Do you think Evan would benefit from some romance sprinkled in his perfected plot lines, or do you think it should be left for the fanfiction writers like yourself?” she asks.
Evan is sitting there, polished. His left loafer is resting gently on the right knee of his wrinkle-free black slacks. He looks relaxed,but in a relaxed way that should be featured on a perfectly curated social media ad.
“Honestly?”
I pause, knowing that what I’m about to say isn’t expected and that there is potential it’s going to cause all sorts of commotion on stage and off, but I can’t continue this fake façade where I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t.
Plus, Melanie had instructed us to banter when necessary to create a little excitement on the stage and in the crowd. It was in the email, and this moment feels necessary.
“I think Evan could benefit from romance, both on the pages of his murder novels and off them. His perfected plot lines would only be enhanced by having a character that is more relatable, which isn’t true of Barrett or of Evan Michaels. Both seem…distant and orderly. Life is messy. When’s the last time you went on a date, Evan?”
I say the words slowly, methodically, because I have been thinking about them for a very long time. Well, for a few weeks. Which means the words are still fresh.
Evan doesn’t look shocked, but I do notice the slight shift of his jaw as he grinds his teeth. “I just haven’t met the right woman.”
“Well, do you make it a point to even meet them?” I ask boldly.
“I’m dedicated to my work at the moment,” he replies evenly.
I smile, pleased with myself at my little deviation from the script. “I don’t know, Evan. I think your fans that have been interested in getting to know Barrett beyond the badge might also love to get to know Evan beyond the author. Right, everyone?”
The crowd erupts in more clapping, and I’m not sure where this new confidence has come from, but I feel like I’m floating on a cloud and the air is growing thin. Or I’m about to pass out. Either way, I better make every second count.
“That’s actually a good point,” Melanie remarks, interrupting our banter.
When I look over at Evan, his eyes are sparking, and I’m not sure if it’s surprise from Melanie’s agreement or ferocity. Whatever it is, it’s a much livelier version of him than whoever was sitting there fifteen seconds ago.
“What do you think, Evan? Should we open some questions to the fans? Let them get to know you a little more?” Melanie asks.
I know there are supposed to be a few more questions in the lineup, but Melanie is taking this opportunity to engage the audience. She is a good publicist, after all.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Evan replies, even though I can see him flexing his right hand, attempting to rid himself of some tension. “But first, I’d like to ask Rachel a question.”
Melanie’s gaze lingers on Evan before darting over to me with a look that says,“Behave. This is going great.”
But she wasn’t in my hotel room two hours ago when Evan had done anything but behaved.
I nod at Evan. “So, what’s your question?”
“You write romance for Barrett,” he begins, and then I see the way his eyes pinch together, gathering all his focus for what he’s going to say next.
“I do.”
“What do you know about it?” he asks. “You say that both Barrett and I could benefit from romance, that everyone is deserving of love, even our favorite fictional characters. But what about you, Rachel Perry? Have you ever been in love?”
My mind scrambles. Have I ever been in love?
I thought I was in love once, but my understanding of love was limited. I didn’t know that love wasn’t control disguised as concern, or that it wasn’t shrinking yourself to fit someone else’s comfort zone.
Andrew never hit me. He was more subtle in the ways he beat me. Smiles with sharp edges. Compliments followed by corrections. He’d say he loved my laugh, and then he’d tell me to be quietin front of our friends. He’d say I lit up a room, and then he’d dim my light when I outshined him.
He didn’t break my heart all at once. He chipped away at it slowly, until I forgot what it was like for my heart to feel full.
